The One Surreal Night of Captain Jee
by DracoMaleficium
Summary: Set during "The Promise." Jee accidentally stumbles upon the new Fire Lord after a long, long time and preserves the meeting for posterity. Originally a oneshot, but may have more parts added in near future.


**A/N**: My first ever Jeeko, which was supposed to be a oneshot set during "The Promise" (so look out for spoilers) but which will probably grow into some more chapters. Dedicated to everyone who likes this teeny tiny ship. *waves Jeeko flag*

There is some language and semi-explicit cross-generation gay sex. Also Maiko on the side.

* * *

I have just fucked Firelord Zuko.

He's sleeping on my bed now, all sprawled and naked and generally looking every inch like a man who's just been thoroughly shagged. Breathing regularly, peacefully, as though he were snuggled up in silks in his own fancy room at the palace and not in some shabby excuse for an inn, in a narrow, creaky, dirty bed, in a room a few adjectives short of "dilapidated" and reeking of cat piss. Now, of course, the unrelenting odor is dominated by the combined smell of sweat and sex – a heady, lingering taste still there in the air; another reminder that less than an hour ago the boy – no, the man – was moaning in that raspy voice of his like the world was about to end, ordering me to go harder and harder until it was physically impossible and my spine felt like it was going to crack.

If I needed more evidence that the world is seriously fucked up, which I don't, I only need to look to my left.

He looks different now. Older (what is he now, seventeen? Eighteen?), taller –close to my height, actually, which is rather disturbing – a bit leaner perhaps, but still obsessively muscular. Nothing that says "kid" about his body anymore, except for some scarcely preserved softness here and there which also seems like it will soon disappear. His hair is different, too. The ponytail is no more (and it's weird to feel nostalgic about it, but there we go) and in its place he's got a shaggy, unruly mass of shoulder-length hair which dangled in thick wisps all over his face when he had it done in the traditional topknot. I can't see his scar right now since his left cheek is pressed to the pillow, but even if it hasn't changed much, it's somewhat less – striking now, more subdued. Maybe it's settled a bit, or maybe the kid himself has changed so much that I hardly noticed it anymore in favor of everything else.

I couldn't sleep – how could I, after everything that's passed? – so as soon as I felt _him_ fall asleep (which was uncharacteristically quickly for him, he must've been completely worn out) I wiggled out of bed and grabbed what was still left of the army-issued writing paper. I haven't kept a journal since that confounded Zhao Siege, but Spirits, if that isn't worth writing down, I don't know what is.

His breathing's changed. I hope my writing hasn't disturbed him. Better make sure he's still out before he catches me noting down evidence –

False alarm. His _Highness_ is still well away in dreamland. I'm going to use what little time I have before dawn to note down exactly what led to having the fucking _ruler of the Fire Nation_ here in my bed, while it's still fresh. Then I'm going to fold it, tuck it away somewhere no one will ever dream of looking, and take out only when I'm sure no one'll barge in on me. It'll be a little like when we were fucking back on the Mizuru and I secretly recorded every single night we spent together – it's only fitting that I should write about this one, to make the records complete.

But let's go back to the beginning.

:::::

It was a dull night, nearly moonless, the air still, the weather hot and stifling like always at this time of year. I've spent most of it drinking in Shen's old pub – that seedy, run-down place by the docks next to the fish storage warehouse. It's a miracle of sorts that the joint's still standing, smelly and dingy as it is, but I suppose the marines make for an undemanding clientele in the hygiene department. Maybe to some of them it even smells like home. My own activities that evening are altogether not worthy of saving for posterity – it was the same routine as every night after miserable night since I got my feet back on the blessed soil of our homeland. Drinking, listening to gossip, drinking some more, joining in whatever conversations seemed most entertaining (for the cheap entertainment value available in such a place), exchanging reminiscences with some poor bloke or other, drinking some more and waiting for the usual brawl to break out. I vaguely recall listening to some soldiers temporarily making port share their impressions about the current state of our used-to-be colonies, but I hardly recall any details now, only that it was, for the most part, disappointingly dull.

That seems to be the price for peace that no one mentions, by the way. Not that I'm a big fan of the war, but now that it's over the tales over baijou got decidedly less captivating.

At any rate, when I got out, feeling the all-too-familiar, routine lull of steady, alcohol-induced moroseness regarding my distinct lack of prospects, or even of proper occupation, and the general shittiness of the position I've been finding myself in regularly ever since getting back alive from the spirits-cursed Zhao Siege, I heard something. It sounded rather like a scuffle, coming from the quieter part of the harbor not far away from where I was standing; the metallic clang and swish of steel hitting steel, some distant shouting echoing in the silence, grunting, the usual. It was by no means strange. The docks in the capital may not be as infamous in the brawling department as the formerly colonial bays, but, in recent days especially, what with the homeland ports swarming with soldiers suddenly discharged from duty and finding themselves without a job, fisticuffs were a normal part of the nocturnal port landscape.

Any other night, I would have surely discarded it to the back of my mind and roamed to the other side of the harbor to brood in drunken peace. To this hour I'm not entirely sure what's gotten into me that I didn't just turn around. Perhaps the blasted feeling of uselessness, the itch to do _something_, to be acknowledged, to feel the pleasant tingle of authority instead of this constant pull of nothingness, was stronger than usual and seized my legs to guide them to the scene. Spirits know I've been on the hunt for something to pull me out of that black funk for _months_. So maybe that was it. But it doesn't matter – in the end, my instincts told me to check what was going on before I could silence them, and, as can be expected, I followed the call before actual reasoning kicked in. Which, as I've suspected for years now, is the main reason behind my currently occupying the very ass-bottom of the hierarchy ladder.

Anyway.

When I got to the scene of the scuffle – for it was a scuffle indeed, and quite a spectacular one, judging from the amount of intense noises floating to the night air – I saw three dark, bedraggled figures advancing on one, forcing him back so that he was balancing on the edge of the pier. The object of the assault was cloaked, clad in nondescript shades of black and maroon, his face half-hidden under the shadows from his hood. He was holding his own against the attackers, expertly swinging a pair of dao blades, slashing and parrying and generally giving off the impression that he knew very well how to use them.

The sight of the dao did it – as soon as I caught a glimpse of them, slicing the air in graceful flashes of silver, I knew I would get involved. _Of course_ my thoughts instantly flew back to the Mizuru, to Prince Zuko's cabin, to the one night when we felt particularly safe and adventurous (the rest of the crew, General Iroh included, having gone to the port at the time) and he let me stay for a while longer – he took his own dao from the wall, then, and started showing off, still very much naked and a little tipsy from the wine we've had before getting to bed. I didn't even need to focus to instantly recall every twitch and curve of his white muscles in the dimmed candlelight when he moved, surprisingly sure-footed despite the wine; or to smell the faint, lingering mix of metal, alcohol, sweat and sex, which seeing the flying blades brought vividly back. I couldn't help it – the scene comes back to me every single time I see the broadswoards, like my mind is on some kind of automaton. Before I knew it, I was in full sprint and jumping in front of the hooded man, fists aflame, body tense and fully prepared to take over. Yes, I know it was a stupid impulse and no, I didn't particularly care at the time. I suppose it's just that I've been hearing so much about Zuko for the last year or so that seeing the man with the swords touched something deep inside and just _pulled_.

Looks like the attackers, whoever they were, decided that whatever issue they had with the man in the cloak were not worth facing a trained, experienced Firebender; they took one look at me, at my flaming fists, at my battered yet clearly functional armor and, finally, at my expression, then promptly turned on their heels and ran.

Well. Talk about anticlimactic.

I had my back turned to the man I had just saved, so I only heard the clang as the broadswoards were brought back together and sheathed, rather jerkily from the sound of it; then, there was a silence that I can only describe as sucking. "Tense" doesn't even come close. It sucked the air and the noise out of everything else, and though I had yet to discover why, I could sense it stilling the air between us just as surely as I suddenly felt pierced right through, with the man's eyes boring intently into the back of my head.

And then I had one of the biggest shocks of my life.

"Lieutenant Jee?"

Surreal. That is the only word I can think of to describe this experience, this uncanny feeling that gripped me the moment I heard that voice – _his_ voice. It was barely louder than the sea breeze and the bawdy laughter floating in echoes from the pubs, but it was enough to completely disconnect me from the here and now. The harbor disappeared. The wooden pier beneath my feet turned to metal. The solid ground swayed, started creaking, and the murmur of waves rhythmically striking against the stones of the docks grew and turned into a hungry, booming song of the open sea. The air, previously scented with salt and fish and refreshing, nightly breeze, grew stiffer, hotter, smelling slightly of metal and rust. It was the Mizuru again, vivid and tangible, with all its mechanical murmurs and the stomping of feet and the Prince shouting order after furious order –

The Prince, stepping into the shower cabin that one, fateful evening, his figure covered in swirling steam, his footsteps light and silent amidst the roar of the water, his voice thick and soft, not even waiting for me to grab a towel before he plunged and seared first my eyes with his gaze, then my mind with his words, then my lips with his own.

The Prince, whose screams I could never hear, but they still thundered in my ears at night whenever that horrifying explosion haunted my memory.

My mind was still reeling with the memories flashing at me in a disconnected, rapid spree when I turned around to face him. He had pulled his hood back, so I was graced with a full view of his face, now obscured by nothing but the natural darkness of the lantern-lit night and the hair falling over his face.

It is a little ridiculous that my first thought was _Where's the ponytail?_ But, given the bizarre circumstances, I may perhaps be excused from feeling more than a little puzzled. My next thought was: _He looks tired_. And he did. The shadows from the lantern nearby did nothing to hide the hollowness of his once-full cheeks or the dark smudges under his eyes, which were piercing me with their lopsided, golden intensity, so painfully familiar. He was also, very obviously, grown.

Of course I've heard the rumors about him. Everyone has. They presented such a magnificent collection of utter hogwash that someone should have recorded them long ago and hung the manuscripts in some museum or other, for it would be such a shame if those gems of misguided storytelling were lost to posterity. I have no patience to mention all of them here, but they all went flying through my head the moment I locked gazes with our new Firelord – and instantly I knew that at least some of them must have carried a grain of truth. There was definitely something _softer_ about him. Something different, more profound, more – mature. It had nothing to do with the fact that, during the year we've been separated, his teenager's body has somehow grown into that of a young adult, but everything to do with the angles in his face and the look in his eyes and the way he held himself even then, on the pier. He no longer resembled a bowstring seconds away from snapping; his gaze no longer threatened to shoot fireballs. Instead, he stood upright, back straight but not overtly so, his posture subconsciously graceful and every inch that of a leader.

The tension, however subdued, was still there, though, transformed and channeled differently; it lingered in the thin, set line of his lips, in the pallor of his fatigued, but strikingly handsome face. It was this, apart from the dark blotch of the scar and the unmistakable color of his eyes, that assured me that it was really Zuko standing in front of me.

But the man I saw then and the prince I used to serve under and sleep with were so impossible to reconcile that I blundered, without even thinking about it:

"Prince Zuko?"

He nodded almost automatically, his good eye widened in surprise, completely ignoring my slip as though he, too, were transported back to the ship; and then he gave me another shock by whispering:

"I thought you were dead."

Perhaps it was ironic that _he_ should say that, given that I still wake up at night to the memory of the good old Mizuru going up in flames – but it startled me enough to blink me back into reality. His voice, although slightly deeper, was still the same. It really _was_ Zuko.

"I looked through the records," he went on, his tone growing slightly stronger, "I went through every report on the Siege I could find, I ordered other people to look for you and the rest of the crew, and they told me you died with the others. That the Ocean Spirit destroyed your ship. If I knew you were alive, I would have –"

He paused and settled on just staring at me, apparently still too stunned to speak.

Well. I must admit that this increasingly nervous, shaky explanation did fill me with a relief too deep to be entirely comfortable. I did wonder about that – once I got over the momentous, revolutionary revelation that Zuko, _my_ rebellious, determined, bratty little Zuko, was, in fact, our new Firelord. I wondered about him even remembering me now that he had the entire nation under his thumb. Perhaps I thought about it rather more than was advisable, especially in the grey hours of dawn after nights wrought with insomnia. And, strange though it was, he wasn't lying – the kid had always been terrible at that and back then, on the pier, honesty floated out with every word, peeked out from every earnest look he gave me.

Seeing that, I couldn't help it. I smiled.

"I guess there must have been a mistake, then," I said, more gently than I expected. "It doesn't matter, sir."

It didn't. The Siege was a messy business – half of the bodies had not even been recovered. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my name got lost in the floods of paperwork that followed, and I'm sure mine weren't the only records that have gotten mixed up like that. But it did warm me to think that he cared enough to look.

He scoffed at me, brushing some strands of hair away from his face. And that was when I first thought of touching him – of touching that hair. But I tried to banish it before it blossomed into a real longing. As far as I knew, that time, those stolen, frantic nights we spent together, was gone, blown up as surely as the ship which had sheltered it.

"Of course it matters. Sometimes I feel like we'll never be able to get all the files from the war in proper order. But…" he gave me a look then, a surprisingly soft one, his face settling on something disturbingly resembling a smile, "I'm glad you're alive and well. Lieutenant."

I was so taken aback by his expression – so, so utterly different from the haughty, spoiled brat I remembered – that what I said next still makes something twist in my stomach in embarrassment at the recollection:

"Technically, it's Captain now. Sir."

And then he smiled at me fully. Actually _smiled_, real humor glinting in his golden eyes, his face lightening up, the exhaustion clearly painted on it fading for a second; not a smirk or a sneer, not a brooding grimace or a sated, post-orgasmic beam. A smile. And then a soft snicker when he turned his head a little to the side in a manner which could have been called coquettish if not for the circumstances, and said:

"Well, technically it's Firelord now, captain."

My lips quirked upward, but I managed to swallow the burst of laughter which threatened to spill out; instead, I took a deep bow and answered:

"Yes, my Lord. I heard."

"I'm sure you did."

Another spell of silence fell between us then; each of us was too taken with staring at the other. I'm sure he was surveying me just as intently as I was him, comparing, remembering. Once more I was struck with all the differences between the Firelord before me and the Prince I once knew. The two were, in that moment, incomparable. But I could not deny the rising, steady thrum of lust underlining my own examination. My gaze lingered, brushing over his lips, whatever was exposed of the white of his neck, over his figure, concealed by his clothes, but obviously fit. And although I struggled to keep the memories of touching him, of kissing and fucking him, out, I could no more stop them from flooding me at the sight of him than I could keep water in a holey old bucket. My rebellious mind conjured up pictures of this new Zuko, supplying me with unwanted questions of what he tasted like now; if his mouth still held the sweet spice of youth; if his thighs were still as soft and delectably muscular to the touch; if he would still react with that half-hissed moan if I licked that spot on his neck, just beneath his healthy ear; if his hair felt as soft and silky as it looked; what would it feel like now if I ran my fingers through it and whether I would miss the sensation of cradling his bare scalp. All of those were fleeting, hazy thoughts, more flashing images than consciously formulated phrases and desires, but they were there, nagging at me and getting stronger the longer I looked.

Given that, it was no surprise that what Zuko said next, very, very quietly, struck me like a bolt of lightning from the sky:

"Do you have a place to stay somewhere nearby?"

The nod I gave him felt as though it took ages to make. He gulped once, loudly, his eyes taking on that determined, steely look I am perfectly familiar with, and ordered me to take him there, just as quietly. The intensity in his eyes grew, sparkled and deepened, was darkened by something more, something warm and liquidy, something which I did not expect to see again and which sent a jolt of electricity straight to my loins. A promise.

I could already suspect how this night would end, even though the rational part of me told me firmly to stop hoping for the impossible.

We walked side by side, Zuko with the hood back up. I kept stealing him sideways glances. It's not like I could help it – all the time it seemed that I had to keep looking at him to be sure he was really there and would not fade away like some sort of desert mirage. All the while, the desire within me hummed and roiled in nervous anticipation. That one look he gave me was proof enough that my hopes were not entirely without foundation, that I was justified in the stirring, steadily uncoiling want, but it did not seal anything. There was something akin to suspense between us then, a sensual impasse, a balancing on a line over a gap this one year apart created, so that we both treaded carefully. It helped that Zuko decided to make conversation, uncharacteristic of the old Zuko though it was; he asked about my promotion, so I told him all about how it was mostly because after the Siege, there were very little naval officers left. I briefed him about the uneventful period between now and when we last saw each other, and I'm the first to admit there wasn't much to tell. Still, it was enough to get us through the way to the inn, though my narrative was punctuated with lengthy silences that were so characteristically _Zuko_ I could have sighed with relief.

My humble quarters are in no way worthy of entertaining royalty, but our esteemed sovereign refrained from making any comments once inside – he simply sat on the edge of my bed, taking the cloak off with a soft sigh. I offered him a drink and he accepted so quickly that it seemed like he was dying for it. Well, so was I, and the first glass of the cheap wine I still had left was sipped in tense, lingering, balancing silence.

Then I decided it was my turn to ask some questions. So I prodded, tentatively at first, trying to get him to fill me in on everything that's led to him being on the throne – well, here was a chance of actually learning the truth behind all of those bizarre events, who wouldn't have taken it? I would be lying if I wrote I wasn't curious like hell. But he just looked at me in a funny, half-amused, half-irritated way and said:

"I survived the explosion and swam under the North Pole to get the Avatar, then I nearly died trying to carry him home through a frozen tundra. I saw Zhao being drowned by a giant water monster. I was a refugee in the Earth Kingdom. I served tea in Ba Sing Se. More than once my sister tried to kill me. I betrayed Uncle and got him in jail and helped nearly kill the Avatar. I got a girlfriend. I got home. I dumped my girlfriend and disowned my Father to go help the Avatar. I met two dragons who showed me the true meaning of Firebending. I broke in and out of the Boiling Rock. I dueled my sister for the throne and got shot with lightning. I was crowned Firelord. Now, which of these do you want to hear about in detail, Captain?"

I hesitated, my mind once again reeling in confusion. It shouldn't come as a surprise to me that my stupid brain decided to pick up the least significant part:

"You served tea?" I asked, and he gave out a grim half-chuckle.

"Yeah," he admitted, smirking. "I even had an apron."

Filing this very alluring mental image away for further, solitary contemplation, I focused on another point which arrested my attention:

"A girlfriend?"

"Uh-huh," he nodded, his smile growing surprisingly tender and – yes, and quite charmingly dopey. "Mai. She's… she's fantastic. We're back together now. She's forgiven me for dumping her for the Avatar."

I am ashamed to admit that I came dangerously close to sputtering my drink all over myself at this point, but it sounded so suspiciously like a deliberate attempt at a joke that really, there was no helping it. Zuko was eyeing me sheepishly from above the rim of his glass, self-consciously gauging my reaction, and it was that more than anything else that assured me that it was not a clumsy and unwitting entendre, as it would have been back then on the ship, but, indeed, a real joke.

Hm. So Zuko was making jokes now? _Interesting._

"And the Avatar had no problems with you dumping _him_ for this Lady Mai, sir?" I ventured, emboldened to play along, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle.

"He got over it. He and Katara – the Water Tribe girl, you must remember her – have gotten quite cozy with each other, if you must know."

Needless to say, hearing gossip about the Avatar's love life was not how I expected my evening to go, and it was so utterly surreal to hear such things from Zuko's lips that some of my feelings must have shown on my face; he regarded me more closely then, the playfulness disappearing from his features to be replaced by an odd kind of solemnity.

"So much has changed, Jee," he whispered. "You have no idea. Everything I've been through, it's… it's been one hell of a journey. And it was hard. But… I'm thankful for all of it. I would have done it all again in a heartbeat, except maybe for betraying my uncle. I feel that I had to go through it all to really _understand_. To know what I know. To be what I am today."

I nodded. There wasn't really much I could reply with to that. "I want to hear about it all, sir," I said after a moment. "About everything. It must make for a great story."

"I daresay it does," Zuko admitted, a faint trace of humor creeping back. "I'm not a great storyteller, though. Sokka would've done a much better job, complete with sound effects."

I was about to ask who "Sokka" was, though I could guess he meant the non-bending Water Tribe boy – and again, him mentioning his former enemies so casually, with so much _warmth_ and genuine affection, was more than a little bizarre – but suddenly it felt as though at the mention of his friend, a dark cloud out of nowhere floated over Zuko's face. His figure slumped on the bed. His head hung low, hair escaping from his topknot in wisps hiding his expression. The grip on his glass tightened so visibly I could see his knuckles whitening. Every hint of humor fled out the window.

I let this sudden change of mood boil and simmer, at a loss as to how to interpret it, much less what to do about it. After a moment's hesitation, I poured Zuko another glass and studied the taut lines of his body outlined under the robe – this time more carefully than lasciviously – and they all screamed at me of exhaustion. I remembered the shadows under his eyes, the disturbing hollowness of his cheeks – all an obvious testimony to him having trouble sleeping.

Well, being Firelord at his age must be hard. I can't even imagine what it's like for Zuko up there on the throne, with the war mess to clean up, Ozai's supporters to deal with and the rest of the world to appease – Spirits, now that I think about it, it's probably enough to make experienced, grown-up men jump off balconies. But if I knew one thing about Zuko, it was that he was _determined_. If he promised to restore the world and the Fire Nation back to balance, he would bloody well do it, no matter what it took. He wouldn't crumble. He would _refuse_ to crumble. There must have been something else weighing him down, something more pressing, urgent – so I decided to wait, to let the silence take over, until he was ready either to share his burden or… do something else.

And so once more we sipped in silence, the air growing steadily heavier with his brooding, while the night went on its steady course outside.

I'm not sure how long it took before he finally sighed again, more deeply this time, and ran a frustrated hand through his misbehaving hair.

"Jee, I'm a mess."

I paused in the sip I was about to take and looked at him closely, attentively. Waiting for him to go on.

"I have no idea what to do," he added after another pause, his voice very quiet and, suddenly, very small. "About the colonies. I used to think that the Harmony Restoration Movement was the answer, and then I saw Yu Dao and I just don't know anymore. I can't force all these people to move. Aang doesn't get it. And what if Kuei won't understand either? What do I do then? I don't _want_ another war, but if I can't get them to _see_…"

He gulped the rest of the wine down in one swing and offered his glass for more. I poured, studying him without a single word – because, well, what could I have possibly said? Aang I guessed to be the Avatar, but Kuei sounded foreign to me. This was not my business. I heard something here and there about the colony disagreement, chopped pieces of contradictory information, but there was nothing I could possibly say to help. Besides, he clearly didn't want advice. He just needed someone to whine to.

Which, for once, I didn't mind. "Is that why you were roaming the docks in disguise? My Lord," I asked, leaning to rest my elbows on my lap.

Zuko nodded. "Yeah. I need to get away from the palace. To think. And just 'sir' will do, Captain. It feels weird when you call me that."

"Aang almost killed me back there in Yu Dao," he confessed in a strained voice after another pause, which I let stretch. "Said I was turning into my father. Which I'm not. I'm NOT," he brought his fist down on the bed in vehement emphasis. "But my own people don't respect me. They say I'm betraying them. How can I rule them if they don't trust me? If they don't respect me? The court advisors I can deal with, but the people? _My _people? It's just… it's so fucked up. I don't know what to do if…"

And again, he trailed off, once more hiding behind his handy curtain of hair. I hesitated a moment, watching him, and when it seemed that nothing more was forthcoming, moved from the chair by the desk onto the bed next to him; not close enough to brush our shoulders together, but enough to feel his body heat. I could hear the implicit dread he was not voicing, but which was eating him from the inside-out: the people who supported him, who were the source of his strength and confidence and whom he was using as anchor, were deserting him, turning against him, and suddenly he was back to being alone. I knew next to nothing about his relationship with the Avatar and his group, but from the way he spoke about them alone it was obvious they were tremendously important to him. And if the Avatar really did try to kill him over a political disagreement…

The kid was slipping. Something had to be done, and fast, before Zuko's talent for making a full-blown fire out of a few scorching embers manifested itself again.

I touched him – lay a firm hand on his thigh. To get his attention, to anchor him back to the real world, away from his thoughts. Nothing more (_and yet it felt so good_). He flinched, but didn't lift his head to meet my gaze.

"Sir," I said, careful to add some force to the tone. "Permission to speak?"

An almost imperceptible nod communicated that yes, I did have permission to speak.

"I don't pretend to know anything about your problems, my Lord," I began cautiously, deliberately putting extra emphasis on his proper title and gently squeezing his thigh (his body heat seeped through the fabric of his trousers into my skin). "But I do know that no one has ever solved a situation just by brooding over it."

That got his attention – he graced me with a sideways glare, head still bent low.

"Getting depressed won't help you," I marched on, mindful to add extra heat into my intent gaze as I held his eyes – well, the one eye I could see. "You are the Firelord now. If you won't make it work, no one will. And I know it's a scary responsibility, but you must have known what you signed up for when you fought your sister. You knew even when you were hunting the Avatar. It's your birthright, my Lord. It's always been. And I know you will make it work, somehow. Because when it comes down to it, you are the one who gets things done."

As I spoke, I rubbed his thigh. Just a little. Out of reflex, without even thinking about it. And as soon as I did, something happened between us – something snapped. I suppose we both felt it at the same time, though I did not initially acknowledge it, busy lecturing him as I was. But there was a subtle change in Zuko's eyes – the glare morphed into something very, very different. There was a pause when we just looked at each other.

The pause sizzled.

And if my evening was surreal before that, what happened next turned it into something so fantastically bewildering that not even the most demented of spirit-tales could match it, because suddenly my lap was full of warm, eager Firelord and my mouth was under a furious assault from a pair of familiar, searing-hot lips. Just like that. One second he was moping and glaring at me out of a corner of his eye and I was giving him a talking-to, the next we were kissing, him scrambling rather ungracefully on my lap and straddling me with fierce gusto, hands buried in my sideburns, petting my hair, pulling me even closer.

"Fuck me," he breathed into my mouth when he finally pulled back.

I'm not going to pretend I didn't want to. Even then my hands were greedily grasping the clothes on his back, trying to feel up the muscles underneath and to absorb his delicious, Firebender warmth. I wanted him in that moment more than I wanted anyone since the Mizuru was blown up. I wanted to be inside him so badly it hurt, had wanted to all through the evening – and the ferocious, frenzied _need_ glistening in his feverish eyes did not help this feeling in the slightest. He was willing, Spirits, oh so willing.

But there was something else in his eyes, besides lust. Something dark and desperate. And it was this which made me pause, hands on his back, lips nearly on his.

"What about your girlfriend?" I managed to utter – which was stupid, but suddenly I felt that I needed assurance that he was not doing it just on the spur of the moment, as Zuko was prone to do. He needed to be aware of this. If he unleashed a storm of guilt on me later on, I wouldn't have been able to take it.

He paused, screwed his eyes shut, let out a deep breath which tickled my cheek. His thighs squeezed slightly.

"I can't do this to her," he whispered, eyes still closed. "Can't use her like this. I respect her. I love her. But I need _this_," he opened his eyes then and desperately grabbed for my face, his voice cracking slightly, his gaze beseeching. "I really do. Please."

And I gave in and kissed him, thinking: _He said "please." He never says "please." He really does need it_.

So it was to be this then. A gateway for his pent-up frustration, a way to make him forget about the weight of the world literary falling on his shoulders. A stress-relief. Something he wouldn't have used his _precious lady_ for, but for which a lowly subordinate met accidentally was good enough. Had I been less starved and wanting, I would have taken offence. But this wasn't about me. Not really; that much I understood from the way he looked at me and clung to me. It was about him and, by proxy, about the Fire Nation. He _was_ the Fire Nation, strange as it was to realize. If he crumbled, the entire nation crumbled. We couldn't afford to crumble now. If he needed to have sex with me to gather his wits about him and pull himself out of the dark place that he had been pushed into, so be it. I understood. I was his loyal subject after all.

It was my patriotic duty, really.

He wouldn't let me go slow, though I did secretly hope for it. No. Once we started kissing in earnest, he was all over me, tasting, pulling, demanding more. I tried to match him in this desperate need, touching, exploring, kissing him while peeling off his clothes. My hands reached up to remove the hairpiece and once his hair fell down in its unrestrained glory, I ran my fingers through it unabashedly, reveling in the alien, silky feeling. Apparently, they knew how to care for their Firelord back at the palace. Zuko's skin, once I moved my mouth to explore it, tasted even better than I remembered, was delightfully smooth and carried a faint whiff of perfume. Like it was made for kissing. I wanted to cherish it, but he never let me linger long enough – on and on he forced us, undressing me impatiently, fingers getting caught once or twice in the straps of the armor, but efficient.

He pushed me down onto the bed and straddled me, leaning down to kiss while he rubbed our erections together, his fingers buried in my sideburns. It was delicious, but not nearly close to what I wanted, so I took over the initiative and reversed our positions, forcing him on his back. He loved this – clung to me even more, pulling me closer and closer until I pulled back to remove whatever clothes still remained between us.

Then, despite his very vocal impatience, I took a moment to just admire. No matter how frantic he was to continue, I haven't seen him, naked or otherwise, in well over a year and I was eager to study exactly how his body had changed. The sight was – _well_. More than pleasing to the eye. If I had any talent, I wouldn't have drawn anything else for as long as I lived but Zuko lying there, flushed and impatient, legs spread out, hair spilling everywhere on the pillow in a black, tangled mass, skin white and already glistening with traces of perspiration, muscles firm and taut and perfect, his manhood fully erect and very obviously demanding, golden eyes shining with desire in the darkened room like those of a pygmy puma. Zuko had always been a good show, both between the sheets and normally, but this sight was exceptionally stimulating, perhaps because this entire meeting seemed so fantastically impossible that he resembled more a Spirit-given, ephemeral dream-gift than a human being.

Surprisingly enough, he let me stare. Perhaps my so obvious adoration of his body stimulated him even more; perhaps he enjoyed being appreciated in this base, physical way. Perhaps he missed it. He was watching me like a hawk as my eyes roamed all over his exposed, naked form. But when our eyes met, he let out a soft whimper of impatience which I took as my cue to get on with things.

I remembered all the little spots on his body which made him moan and writhe before, and used them. I explored him without shame, stimulated him as much as I possibly could. Lavished caresses, kissed every available place on his perfect body. Worshipped him with my fingers and my mouth, drowned him in physical impulses and overwhelmed him with pleasure. If it was to be about him, then I wasn't about to be neglectful.

When I finally took him in earnest, on his back, his legs hooked over my shoulders, our eyes watching each other all the time, he was already reduced to incoherent noises and half-voiced demands. That was how I wanted him. Wild, needy, rough, his fingers scratching my back, roaming and occasionally falling on my ass to pull me in _even deeper_, breathing hard and moaning until his already husky voice grew hoarse. _Harder, harder_. It drove me insane. It had never been this intense, this desperate, back on the Mizuru – he had never given himself to me with this much free, careless abandon. Back then, there was always the mystery, the keeping quiet, the being careful in fear of getting caught – tonight there was none of that. The bed creaked, hit against the wall; none of us bothered with silencing ourselves. The thought of other lodgers overhearing only drove me on. And Zuko, with his heat, with his sweet tightness, with that incredible look in his eyes and his attractiveness, with that familiar, complete determination doubled by utter abandon and blind desire…

It was amazing.

And way too short for my liking.

After the sex was over, none of us said a word; we just collapsed against each other, sweaty and sticky, and breathed until our hearts recovered. I put my arm around Zuko and pulled him close to me and he rested his head against my chest without a word, just like that, and we lay there, simply breathing, waiting for the wild race of our blood to calm down. He fell asleep like that, his head on my chest, my fingers in his hair, stroking him.

This was… endearing.

And so here I am, writing it down, about to slip back to bed and hold this warm body close until the sun rises and chases him away from my arms. Perhaps he will seek me out again, when frustration once more gets the better of him. He knows I'm alive now. He knows how to find me.

Perhaps.


End file.
